


Faith and Doubts

by danceswithhamsters01



Series: Reddit Prompts [103]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Comfort, Doubt, F/M, Faith is a complicated thing if you were raised in a Circle, Having Faith, Light Angst, Religious Discussion, Spiritual but not Religious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25940467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswithhamsters01/pseuds/danceswithhamsters01
Summary: Based on a prompt from r/dragonagePrompt 3- Your OC and their LI have differing religious/spiritual views. Write a scene where this presents a problem.The Chantry: a common link for much of Southern Thedas, uniting many in a shared faith. But for one Circle-mage-turned-Grey-Warden, it's a complicated subject. What happens when one does have faith, but it's not in the institution? Is it a dealbreaker for her most cherished of relationships?
Relationships: Female Amell/Zevran Arainai
Series: Reddit Prompts [103]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1153856
Kudos: 5





	Faith and Doubts

The figure drifted in from the doorway with small quiet steps, as if they were loathe to disturb the cloak of silence that clung to the room. Light poured in from above by way of stained glass windows that bore a triptych depicting Andraste leading her armies against Tevinter on the left, her capture on the right, and her martyrdom in the middle and largest portion which also caused the room to be presently drowned in red, orange, and yellow light. The figure made their way up the lone aisle between the rows of pews, gaze fixed on the other end of the chapel at the looming brass statue of a woman holding a bowl of fire. A small army of red candles with lazily flickering flames sat at the statue’s base while a wooden podium stood several feet to the left of it.

The figure came to a halt before the statue, taking a moment to push back the hood from her face before gazing up at the statue’s face in silence. The small chapel was a modest and dreadfully drab thing compared to the cathedrals in Denerim and Amaranthine but was resplendent compared to the little chapel she’d grown up attending in the Circle. The chantries in the big cities were horribly loud, what with at least one, but usually several, Sisters and Brothers singing verses of the Chant of Light at any given time of day. It had been a strange thing to her; the Circle’s chapel was silent save for when it was time for weekly Service to be performed. She preferred to not have vocal accompaniment to her prayers that the silent, and perhaps deaf, Maker ignored.

After digging in the pouch at her hip and finding what she sought, she allowed herself to sink to her knees before the statue. Revered Mothers did not waste the opportunity to use the sight of the “Hero of Ferelden,” the Commander of the Grey, a _mage_ , kneeling prayer for their own ends. The less annoying instances were just the well-meaning old biddies trying to encourage other folks to offer devotion to the Maker and his Bride by way of prayer or hymn. What she hated most, however, were the ones who used it to shame. _“Look there. See how the wretched mage is paying homage to the Maker. If someone so cursed can do it, what’s stopping you?”_ She squeezed her hands into fists at the memory, a glare overcoming her features before shutting her eyes and taking several deep breaths to banish the vision. When she opened her eyes, she gave silent thanks for the Vigil’s chapel being both out of the way and not as busy as the ones in the cities.

The Warden turned her gaze to the prayer beads in her left hand, surrounded by tiny rounded pillow scars in her palm. The chain consisted of silver beads that bore faint traces of black tarnish and a miniature icon of the Prophetess made of bronze that had the beginnings of a green patina. If she were a sensible person, she would have gotten rid of the bauble not long after having her heart broken by the one who gave it to her. For good or ill, being ‘sensible’ was not one of Sevarra’s virtues. Besides, the beads were the first gift anyone had given her. That, and the confession that accompanied the gift, made their sentimental value second only to the tiny golden loop adorning her earlobe.

 _Enough dawdling,_ she scolded herself. With a whisper and a small set of gestures, one of the idle candles flickered to life with a new flame upon its wick. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in amusement, imagining that the soul of Revered Mother Meera, who’d presided over the small chapel of her childhood, was somehow grimacing from beyond the Veil and scolding her for using magic instead of “lighting the candle the way the Maker intended!” She closed her eyes and began the first of many prayers, smooth beads passing between thumb and finger with each verse.

“I cannot see the path.

Perhaps there is only abyss.

Trembling, I step forward,

In darkness enveloped.”

_Well, that feels pretty damned accurate._ Her fingers caressed the tiny bronze icon on the chain, her mouth in a small lost-in-thought frown. One of the many things glossed over in the stories she read about heroes while growing up was just how fucking terrifying it was to _be_ the hero in reality. It was one thing to read about slaying a dragon and something else entirely to actually do the deed. She shivered as the memory of the dragon called “Andraste” in the mountains surrounding the Temple of Sacred Ashes came to the forefront of her mind. That.. had not been a good afternoon, what with flame breath aimed her way and being swept off her feet by its massive tail and being sent flying across the field.

“Though all before me is shadow,

Yet shall the Maker be my guide.

I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.

For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light

And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

A familiar velvety chuckle made her heart skip a beat… and lose her place in the Canticle entirely.

“There you are, my dear! Are you perhaps hoping that holy ground will dissuade your noble-born visitors?”

The chuckle left her throat before she could think twice. The mental image of Revered Mother Meera giving her a dirty look only further fueled the lop-sided smile on the mage’s lips. “If I _really_ wanted to scare them off, I’d sing,” she said as she rose to her feet.

Zevran cocked a questioning eyebrow as he drew near. If he noticed the prayer beads in her hand, he made no mention of them.

“The Sisters took me aside one Sunday afternoon after services when I was a young apprentice and told me while the Maker gave everyone a gift, perhaps it would be better if I offered silent contemplation while the others joined in the hymns during service. They said something about my attempts at singing making seagulls sound delightful in comparison.”

“How utterly unkind of them,” he replied. “I’m certain they were merely… exaggerating, yes?”

She snorted. “Says the man who’s never heard me sing. What brings you here, amor?”

A rare sight flashed over his features as he wrapped one arm around the small of her waist: wistfulness. “I had hoped to perhaps listen as the Revered Mother led the evening’s chant. She has a lovely vibrato when she sings.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I hadn’t pegged you as a devout sort. Granted, life hasn’t been anything that could be mistaken for normal in… well, a long time.” An understatement, considering that she’d been instrumental in killing both an archdemon and a powerful darkspawn that called itself ‘The Architect’ within a two year period.

“I am, in my way. As are all Antivans. The cathedrals back in Antiva City are something to behold. They are beautiful and the stained glass windows make one think of jewels when the sun shines through them. I visit whenever I can. You can always find a few Sisters and Brothers within its walls singing the Chant. It is… an oasis of peace in an otherwise busy place,” he answered softly.

She studiously kept her head on his shoulder, averting her gaze. The very things she found vexing were the ones that gave him comfort, at least where the chantries were concerned. “Mother Felicity will be back tomorrow. She had to go to the city on official business, or so I was led to believe.”

He gave a momentary playful pout before pressing a kiss into her hair. “What were you doing in a silent chapel all alone, hm?”

“The chapel where I was raised was always quiet if it wasn’t a Sunday. Besides, I find silence preferable to listening to some biddy harping on in a ‘sermon’ how I’m cursed and one stray thought from becoming the latest evil to plague the lands. For being a non-magical institution, the Chantry has a damned lot to say about the matter. It’s as if we’re all guilty just for being born mages. It’s tiring.”

She blushed and bit her lip to keep herself from ranting further. _Shit. He didn’t need to hear that, not in a place that comforts him._

The arm around her waist gave a brief squeeze before he spoke. “And yet, it was a mage who helped end the blight.” He tilted his head as he gently lifted her chin with a finger, warm brown eyes capturing her own. “Are you a believer? Or perhaps you have doubts, hm?”

She frowned and squeezed her eyes shut, searching for both an answer and the courage to utter it. “I… don’t know? I mean…. I want to? To believe, that is.” She sighed and opened her eyes. “I can’t say there’s nothing there, not after all that I’ve seen. Especially after that temple and finding the ashes to cure Eamon. I… I think there’s a Maker. I also think that there really was an Andraste and all that. It’s just… the chantry itself that I find hard to swallow. They have so much power and from what I’ve seen, they use it to retain the status quo rather than _fix_ things. I… I don’t think that is what Andraste herself would do. She said that magic shouldn’t be used to rule over people or used to harm people. She didn’t say a damned word about forcibly taking mages away from their families. She didn’t say a damned word about keeping those with magic locked away from everyone else after we’ve completed our training.”

Anxiety began gnawing at her insides. Had being honest offended him? Would he reconsider things between them because of it? _Stupid, stupid, girl! Why couldn’t you keep your stupid mouth shut for once?!_

A chuckle interrupted her train of thought. “I suspect you are far from the only one having such thoughts.”

“Does that bother you?” she asked, a trickle of the ocean of anxiety in her gut coloring her voice.

“What? No, of course not. Having questions and doubts does not make someone a bad person, amora.”

Relief flooded her chest as she wrapped her arms around his middle and hugged tightly. A faint smile curved her mouth as she spoke. “I suppose we should tend to our guests in a little bit. I suddenly find myself with enough energy to consider it.”

“Oh, you’ve chosen a few verses to sing to them, perhaps?” he said with a grin.

She snorted and shook her head, still smiling.


End file.
